Withered Tree
by Altariel
Summary: A penny for the Old Guy... An AU set in Minas Tirith.
1. Chapter I: Hands of a Healer

**Withered Tree**

**by Altariel**

_**A penny for the Old Guy...**_

_**

* * *

**_

_Between the acting of a dreadful thing _

_And the first motion, all the interim is _

_Like a phantasma or a hideous dream:_

_The genius and the mortal instruments _

_Are then in council; and the state of man, _

_Like to a little kingdom, suffers then _

_The nature of an insurrection. _

Julius Caesar, II, i

* * *

**Foreword**

History has many cunning passages, and we must choose our way with caution.

The summer after I completed my first major work of fiction, I found myself lost, with no clear path ahead. A conversation with an old friend restored to me some sense of purpose. A great-uncle of his, who had recently died, had left to him his papers, in great disarray, and my friend required someone to bring order to them. So I went to the old man's study, hid myself away from the sun, and wandered the ways of his library. I found much of interest, and had a great deal to do, but there, beneath a complete set of _Wisden_, I discovered an old manuscript, of indeterminate but certainly great age; yellowing, but not crumbling. The weight of all those centuries had preserved the papers well.

Translating the text was not an easy task. The language was ancient, and one with which I had only a passing familiarity. But this was not the chief source of my difficulties. When I began work, I was certain I knew the tale already – knew the players, the scenery, the path the story took. But in this I was mistaken: consequently, I was waylaid and kept off track for a long time. For the story the manuscript contained was in fact very different from the one I already knew so well. I do not know whether the other, better craftsman had these sources at his disposal and chose to tell instead the version we all know so well. It cannot be doubted it suits his epic best. In this translation, I aim not to dispute that better telling, only to suggest another tradition, to adumbrate the lines of another branch of the tree.

In all of these endeavours, I have been the fortunate recipient of much help. My thanks and gratitude go to Alawa, Isabeau of Greenlea, and Dwimordene, without whose assistance the manuscript would have been neither deciphered nor interpreted. Tanaqui assisted greatly in the ordering of the sources, the fruit of which labour can be seen in Appendix A. Thank you also to Denise, who remained steadfast in her belief that this tale would eventually be told, when the editor herself despaired.

_June 2003 – September 2010_

* * *

**Prologue**

**Concerning Hobbits**

"Hi there! Hi there, you young scoundrels!"

With a sigh, Faramir Took set down his pen and waited.

"Hi there! Get down from there!"

Some young lads and lasses swinging from the branches of the tree, no doubt. A generation of Tuckborough hobbit children had done so, and had been shouted at by the Thain for their insubordination. Faramir had done it himself – the once. Pa was particular about this tree.

"Get down there! Hi!" A roar that would have made his (here Faramir scratched his nose thoughtfully) great-great-great-great (and scratched again) _great_-uncle proud. Looking back at his father, Faramir saw with alarm that the Thain was now leaning halfway out of the window, waving his arms about.

"Pa! You'll fall!"

"What?" The Thain turned to peer at his son.

"Come and sit down again. They've been climbing on that tree since before I was born, and they'll be climbing on it when I'm gone."

"Villains," the Thain muttered, straightening his broad waistcoat and coming back to sit in his chair opposite his son. "No respect. Don't they know where it came from? A grain of dust from the Lady of Lórien, and all they can do is dangle from it."

Faramir sighed again.

"They don't care for the trees," his father said. "And worse – they don't care for the _tales_. And I don't just mean about the tree," he said, wagging a finger at his son. "All of the tales – they don't care for them." He sagged into his chair. His lined face fell and his eyes lost their customary sparkle. "Poor cousin Frodo," he murmured. "No-one cared to hear his tale."

"You shouldn't blame them, Pa," Faramir said gently. "What's a tree for if not for children to climb in?" He picked up his pen. "_I_ want to hear the tales, Pa," he said firmly.

His father gave him a sad smile. "You're a good lad, Fa," he said. "You'll make a good Thain when I leave."

Sorrow welled up in Faramir's breast. He did not want to think about that, not on a fair summer's day in the Shire, with the sun shining and the bees humming, and the village children unafraid to clamber on the slender white branches of the tree that stood by the Thain's very window.

"Come on, Pa," he said. "We're near the end now. The last days."

"The last days..." The Thain's eyes turned back to the window and a silence fell.

"Pa?"

Still he did not answer, and Faramir was about to call his name again, when Peregrin Took at last began to speak, in a voice that started low, but gained in strength as he went on.

"There are three things to remember about those last days, Faramir," he said. "The sound of horns blowing at daybreak. The sight of Eagles wheeling high above." He stopped again and stared into the garden.

"The third thing, Pa?"

The Thain turned back to his son. "An old man," he said, "with tears on a face that should have been stern, bent on a staff when he should have been proud, standing before a withered tree."

o0o

Pippin dared not breathe as he followed Gandalf out of the House of the Stewards. _One false step_, he thought, _and the whole place will come tumbling down. _

Gandalf carried Faramir to the bier that stood upon the porch of the House, and gently laid him there to rest. Beregond drew a coverlet – still drenched with oil – over the fevered man. The movement disturbed Faramir and, from the depths of his dreaming, he called out for his father.

Slow footsteps sounded on the stone. Pippin gazed up at the Lord of the City. Denethor was looking with longing upon his son, with eyes dark from weeping. He took a step closer to the bier. Beregond twisted the hilt of his sword in his grasp, and then all about – servant and wizard and hobbit – were still, as they watched the struggle on the Steward's face.

Pippin could hardly bear to look upon that ruin. _He was so proud, so strong! _Pity for the old man filled his heart. _If only there was something I could say!_ He looked anxiously at Gandalf and saw, with dismay, that he was making ready to speak.

_But that will do no good!_ Pippin groaned to himself. _And worse, even! Like as not if Gandalf speaks that will send Denethor even further into madness! Well, Pippin,_ he thought, looking at the terror on the faces of all the servants gathered around, _there's no-one else here..._

_Oh, Merry, I hope this is the right thing to do..._

"Please!" he said, and thought how shrill and thin his small voice sounded in this sombre place. "Please! I don't want you to die!"

The dark and ancient eyes fell upon him. Pippin shuddered to look at them, to feel the weight of them upon him.

"Our deaths are certain, Master Peregrin," Denethor whispered. "All the East moves upon us, and from the south, too, doom approaches. Why should we not rule our own ends? Ash and smoke! There is naught else."

"But your _son_!" Pippin pleaded. "He may still live! Is that not something?"

Denethor looked once more upon Faramir – and, again, it seemed to all who stood by that the Lord's face was at war with itself. He reached out and set a trembling hand on his son's brow and, at the touch, Faramir whispered his father's name.

"He's calling for you," Pippin said. "Is that not something? Is that not enough? Is _he _not enough?"

Grey dawn crept across all the domes and the columns of Rath Dínen. And, as the hesitant light touched his face, the Steward of Gondor waved one hand at the servants standing nearby, waiting for their Lord's command.

"Bear him to the Houses of Healing," he said.

Softly, obediently, the servants picked up the bier and began their slow procession back along the Silent Street. Denethor followed, with Beregond close behind. As Pippin moved to fall in step, he felt a touch upon his shoulder. He looked up. Gandalf was smiling down at him, fierce, judging, kindly.

o0o

"Pa?"

For a moment, all was still, inside and out. The children had moved on to another game, and Faramir's pen had stopped its scratching some time ago. His hand hovered above the page, and he stared doubtfully at his father. The Thain had shut his eyes, and his head had sunk down almost to his chest. But he was not asleep. One gnarled forefinger was tapping steadily against his chin.

"Pa?" Faramir said again, uncertainly. "Pa, this isn't how you've told this tale before..."

The Thain's eyes shot open and his head snapped up. "No," he said. "No, it isn't." A queer gleam came into his eyes. "We walked only a little way, Fa, and then – all of a sudden! – Lord Denethor grabbed a torch from one of his servants, and he turned and ran back to the House of the Stewards. And he threw that torch in through the open door and, quick as flash the fire leapt up! And I thought he was going to go in himself, but he just stood and watched the flames take hold, and then he turned back and ordered us to carry on to the Houses of Healing. And we did, and we all walked back down that Silent Street, and above the noise of the battle below, I could hear that old stone House cracking and burning and breaking—"

He stopped, suddenly, and gave his son a long look. Faramir stared back at him.

"You're not writing, Fa," the Thain remarked.

Faramir looked down at the pen in his hand, and then up again at his father.

"Write it down, Fa!"

"Are you sure, father?" Faramir whispered.

"I'm sure," the Thain said. "Set it down. Set it all down."

* * *

**Chapter I**

**Hands of a Healer**

The sun was setting, and all the field of Gondor was aflame. The river ran red, but the day was won. High above, in the sixth circle of the City of the Kings, the rays of the dying sun fell upon the faces of its steward and his heir. For a moment it seemed as if a flush of health had returned to Faramir's face – then the sun departed from the sky and he went deeper into darkness.

Beside him sat his father, his son's hand in his keeping, paying no heed to the women who rumoured around him, caring nothing for the wizard that came at times to stand and watch. The last of the sunlight falling on Denethor's face brought no change. He remained the colour and the set of stone.

Grey shadows lengthened in the sickroom. Faramir was now barely breathing. Then the door clicked open, and a floorboard creaked as someone passed across the room. Slowly, Denethor raised his head. Across the sickbed, a figure was standing, silhouetted black against the window, yet silvered in light. Their eyes met, and the steward greeted the king.

"_Get out."_

o0o

"He sent you forth like a _servant_?"

Éomer's voice had risen, and there were people hurrying past down the corridor, giving them curious looks. Aragorn raised his hand, gestured to him to soften his speech.

"He was quite clear that I am not welcome here."

As if the forty years past had been but days. But, in truth, Aragorn had seen already how time had worn the White City. As he had passed, cloaked and hidden, up through the levels, he had seen more empty houses, more crumbling stone, had seen how all the streets were silent, stripped of their children, of their life.

"Did he remember you?" Imrahil asked, evenly.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. The Prince was staring at a point in the hallway slightly beyond him. Imrahil had been a young man when he had left Gondor, and Thorongil had had no cause to visit Dol Amroth, but his reputation had been great.

"Yes," Aragorn replied softly. "Yes, he remembered me."

Imrahil gave him a slight smile. "Then little am I surprised at your welcome, my liege."

"But at the cost of his son's life?" said Éomer.

Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged a look.

"Maybe," said Aragorn, and stared down the long corridor. A servant was making his slow way past them, lighting the lamps as he went. Aragorn curbed a sigh. The evening was drawing on, and there were others still in need of his attention. "Do we know what caused the hurt to the steward's heir?" he said.

"A Southron dart," Imrahil answered. "I drew it forth, but did not keep it – the wound was not deep. And that does not explain his fever—"

"No," Aragorn agreed, "that would not be enough."

"He had already ridden far under the Shadow before he rode out to battle," Gandalf said. "And he and the steward did not part well."

"His father's mood has been most strange..." Imrahil murmured.

"And it worsened," Gandalf said, and told him and Éomer of all that had passed in Rath Dínen.

There was a silence as they both took in the news. The servant had reached the end of the hallway now, Aragorn saw, but did not check his pace as he turned the corner, and disappeared out of sight. Someone walked past, on an errand to a nearby room. They shifted in a little closer, leaning together.

"We cannot leave him in there!" Imrahil said at last. "What might he yet do?"

"Beregond is there," Gandalf murmured, putting out a hand to comfort him.

"And since the steward's mood is dangerous, we have to move with caution," Aragorn said, and then raised a hand to his brow. "But if, as seems likely, Faramir has succumbed to the Black Breath, then he will not heal without my aid, and even then it is not certain." He stared once more at the lamps, as if they might offer him an answer.

At last, Éomer spoke, his voice urgent but low this time. "Lord, my sister waits... I beg you – go back in there and do what you must, or leave the steward to whatever madness it is that consumes him. For while we delay, Éowyn is dying."

Seven lamps along the passage, and the shadows crowding in the spaces between. "Then my path is chosen," Aragorn replied.

o0o

The curtains had been drawn, sealing out the end of the day. The steward was still sitting by the bed, holding his son's hand. There was a fire in the hearth and on a side table a lamp now stood, casting a thin, pale light onto Faramir's ashen face. In the corner of the room, slumped forward, sat Beregond, eyes still firmly fixed on the steward and his son. The air in the room was thick and close, and beneath it lay a sour smell – of sickness, of decay.

Aragorn turned to the women that stood by, speaking to them in a low voice.

"Bring me hot water, and quick."

Denethor's head snapped up. He rose from his chair and turned to face the men that had entered the room. His eyes fell briefly and bitterly upon Imrahil, and then settled on Aragorn.

"You were told to leave," he breathed. "I will _not_ have you in this room!"

Éomer stepped forward, hands clenched by his side, but at a sign from Aragorn he halted.

"It may be that I can heal your son," Aragorn said, quietly.

"I want _naught _from you—"

"It is _not _your choice to make!" Éomer shot back. Imrahil set a hand upon his arm.

The air in the little room was heavy. Denethor looked down at Faramir and something in him seemed to give.

"Take it all," he whispered, raising his hands to his head, "but do not take my son."

"I will take naught that is not given freely," Aragorn replied. "There is a faint hope yet! But if you do not let me call him, then he will surely die."

Denethor sat back down in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. "Then you may call him," he said at last, wearily. He reached out to set his hand back upon his son's brow – and it brushed against Aragorn's, already in place.

Their eyes met. The fire crackled. Denethor drew back.

Aragorn knelt down beside the bed, and it seemed to those watching that he grew grey and weary. As he called Faramir's name, his voice became fainter and fainter, as if he too were now wandering in some dark place far beneath the shadow.

"He is lost," Denethor whispered. "It was a fool's hope."

Imrahil came to stand behind him, setting his hand on the back of the steward's chair. "Patience," he said, gently. "This is beyond our understanding. The paths of our lives are not set and the way ahead may still be open."

Barely had he finished speaking when the door was thrown open, and Bergil ran in, clutching to his chest a handful of leaves in a cloth. Aragorn took some from the boy, and comforted him, and then went back to the bedside. He breathed upon the leaves, and then he crushed them and threw them into the water the women had brought. A clean sharp scent stole through the air.

"Faramir," Aragorn said and, although his voice was still soft, it had the clear force of command, "Awake."

The fragrance of _athelas_ filled the room, banishing the stale odour of despair. Denethor's head remained bowed.

"_Awake_."

Faramir stirred and woke. Looking up, he saw Aragorn, and his eyes sparked and shone.

"My lord," he said hoarsely, like a man near dead of thirst. "You called me. I come—"

"_Faramir..._"

Slowly, regretfully, Faramir turned away from Aragorn and towards the figure sitting, head lowered, at his side. And to those watching, it seemed that a fire of longing flickered in his eyes.

"Father," he said. "I heard you... I heard you call. I could not follow. Forgive me."

Their fingers met and clasped. Denethor raised his son's hand to his lips, and kissed it.

"I am so weary..." Faramir whispered to him.

"Sleep," his father answered. "I shall stay at your side. I shall be here when you wake."

Faramir turned his head back again – almost, it seemed, as if he sought permission. "Rest a while, as your father has said," Aragorn told him. "Take food – and be ready."

"I will, lord," said Faramir, and his eyes began to close. "For who would lie idle," he murmured, and only those near to him heard, "when the king has returned?"

o0o

Aragorn closed the door behind him and looked again along the lamplit hall. Everything had aged. But beyond repair?

Beside him, Imrahil set his hand upon the doorframe, and he stood staring at the carving of the tree upon the door, as if by will alone he might peer into the chamber and see what passed within. Then he sighed and drew the hand wearily across his eyes.

"I must wonder at the wisdom of leaving them together," he murmured.

"Beregond will remain on guard," Gandalf replied. "He will let no harm befall his captain."

Imrahil shook his head. "But he tried to kill him. His own son, and he tried to kill him."

"There are many in the city in need of healing," Aragorn said, running a finger over the plaster on the wall. "And not all are confined to their beds." He picked at the plaster with his nail. It crumbled away.

"But this is the _steward_—!" Imrahil struggled to restrain himself. "This is not simply anger on account of my nephew, sire. This _cannot _be brushed aside."

"And it will _not_ be," Aragorn replied. "But other matters are more pressing. We have enemies enough without strife amongst ourselves."

"And the tale should not carry further," Gandalf added. "Faramir at least should not hear until he is healed. There is enough doubt in the city without uncertainty about its Lord. For now, it should appear that the steward commands still in Minas Tirith."

Aragorn laid his hand upon Éomer's arm. "You have waited long enough," he said. "Let us go to the Lady Éowyn."

o0o

All that night Aragorn and his brothers went about the city, and the rumours spread of the lord who bore a green stone – an Elfstone – and whose hands brought healing. But in the morning, when the heralds sounded the new day that none had thought would come, the white banner of the stewards was flying in place of the swan ship at the top of the Tower, and it seemed to men that they had woken from a dream. A dream of peace and restoration that moment by moment slipped away, as the waking world washed over them.


	2. Chapter II: The Mind and Its Policies

**Chapter II**

**The Mind and Its Policies**

Faramir opened his eyes and saw that it was light. The window was open, and the curtains were drawn back and fluttering in the breeze. He breathed deeply. There was a fresh tang to the air that reminded him of something that he could not place; something that remained just out of reach.

Lying still for little longer, he looked up at the white ceiling, at the cracks chasing across the plaster. Then, summoning his strength, he glanced down to the foot of the bed. Beregond was there, asleep in a chair. Faramir smiled.

_Would that he were awake_, he thought, _but from his face he needs the rest! Yet I have so many questions... How long have I lain here? Are my men safe? It seems that the city is not lost – but _how_? We did not have the strength to hold back the darkness _(here he shivered a little)_ – what aid came that we did not foresee?_

As he wondered, his eyes roamed around the room. On the wall opposite, behind Beregond, there was a hanging – rather frayed, the colours fading. He stared at the picture. A seascape – ships, and the suggestion of a haven. It was like many that had lined the walls of his childhood home; like many that still hung in his uncle's halls. As a boy, he would sit before them and tell himself the stories of the tall ships that had fled the foundered land, seeking sanctuary, bringing the Kings of Men to Middle-earth.

_The Sea_, Faramir remembered, and smiled. _That is it! I can smell the Sea. Fresh air, coming in from the West—_

A slight sound at his side interrupted this returning thought. He twisted his head and saw that there in the chair at his bedside sat his father. He too was fast asleep.

Had Faramir not been so tired, he would have laughed out loud. _I thought he never slept! I have not seen him do so in years... Proof indeed of what we had long since ceased believing – our father is like any other man! Boromir will laugh when I tell him this— _

But Boromir was no longer there to hear the story told. Faramir gritted his teeth to stifle his hurt, but he was not quick enough to hold back a gasp.

Both sleeping men were woken by the sound. Denethor reached over and seized his hand. Beregond was out of his chair and by his side in moments.

"Are you hurt, captain?" he said, and Faramir heard real fear in his voice.

"I thought of Boromir," he replied, before he could think even of the need for an evasion. His father's grip slackened. Faramir hastened to cover his lapse.

"Would you help me sit, please, Beregond?"

Slowly and carefully, Beregond helped him to a sitting position. His father began to pile up pillows for him to rest upon – and still he had spoken not a word.

Faramir leaned back, and was suddenly aware of the dressing on his shoulder, of how the wound had been received. He looked straight at his father.

"My lord," he said. "What news?"

Denethor turned to Beregond.

"Leave us."

Beregond did not answer. Neither, to Faramir's wonder, did he move.

"Are all my commands to be ignored now? I wish to speak to my son alone. Leave us!"

Still he did not move.

"Beregond?" Faramir said.

"I... am ordered not to leave you, captain," Beregond replied, fingering the coverlet on the bed.

"But what could happen to me here – and with my father nigh?" Faramir smiled at him. "Perhaps you could find me something to eat. That would not take long, surely?"

Still he hesitated.

"I _am_ hungry," Faramir said.

Unwillingly, Beregond bowed. "As you command, sir," he said, to Faramir, and made to leave, looking back unhappily over his shoulder before closing the door behind him. Faramir waited a moment, and then turned to his father once more.

"How were we saved?"

Denethor looked, unseeing, at the fluttering curtains, at the noonday sun falling upon the white walls.

"We are not saved. We are doomed. The Dark Lord's hand has been stayed, yes – but not for long."

Faramir leaned his head back against the pillows, and closed his eyes, waiting to be required again. His father continued speaking.

"All the East moves against us. He will stretch out to take us once more, and when that happens—"

A sudden, violent noise. Faramir jumped and his eyes shot open. Denethor was sitting quite still, his fist against his palm. His eyes were still staring far beyond the little room.

The old, too-familiar fear came back. _You were never a young man_, Faramir thought, _and you seemed to age so quickly. _He looked back up at the white of the ceiling above. _Oh, Boromir! This was ever our shared burden. Why could you not come back to me?_

He felt something brush against his face, turned to see his father's hand reaching out to touch him. The fingertips seemed cold upon his flesh; against his will, he shivered.

"My son breathes yet," Denethor said, and gave him a pale smile. "My son breathes yet."

The door opened, the draught catching and lifting the curtains higher. The Prince of Dol Amroth entered, and stood for a moment in the doorway, staring at father and son.

"Valar be praised," he murmured, and then crossed the room quickly, coming to sit on the bed. He set his hand against Faramir's brow.

"No fever," he said, and shook his head. "We had thought you were lost!" He took Faramir's hand within his own, and smiled at him.

"As you can see," Faramir replied, "I breathe yet."

Imrahil laughed out loud. "And how is the shoulder?"

"A little pain, but naught I cannot bear – uncle, please, I have had no news."

The prince glanced across the bed at the steward sitting opposite. "You are ill, Faramir," he said, "you should not yet be troubling yourself—"

"If I hear naught, I shall only lie here and worry – uncle, I beg you! I am too tired to debate this."

Imrahil sighed. "Very well, although you must rest again soon. The city was besieged, and the gate was broken. And then we were saved – twice – by the coming of our allies. The Rohirrim came at dawn as the gate fell, and then..." He halted.

"Uncle?"

"And then, later, a fleet of ships came with aid from the South. There was battle on the Pelennor, and the day was won." He smiled. "Is _that_ enough news for you?"

Before Faramir could say that it was not, Denethor spoke, a half-question.

"The ships had black sails...?"

Faramir turned to look at him. _This is all news to him too,_ he realized. _How can that be so?_ He felt the draught again, cold this time, and reached to pull the cover higher up around him.

Imrahil answered. "They had, as you say, black sails."

Faramir leaned his head back against the pillows and stared once more at the ceiling. "I think I should rest for a while," he said. "Alone."

He felt Imrahil press his hand, and then the Prince released it, and stood up.

"Perhaps that would be wise, for now," he said. "And I must speak to the steward, if he would accompany me?"

Faramir watched them leave, and then gazed again at the hanging opposite him. The sea seemed stormy now, the haven a forlorn hope. He looked up at the ceiling instead, but now the cracks caught his attention. He wiped his hand across his brow. It felt clammy.

The door opened. Faramir jerked his head up.

But it was Beregond, bearing a tray piled high with plates. Faramir lay back again and watched as Beregond set the tray on the bed before him.

"The prince said that you wished to rest, captain," he said. "But I shall remain outside the door in case you need me." He finished with the tray, and looked at his captain. "You need only call."

"Stay!" said Faramir, quickly – and then forced a smile. "Sit down, Beregond. There is far too much on this tray for me, and I am certain you have not eaten." He offered him a plate. Beregond took it, and sat down.

"Tell me... tell me about the siege, and the battle. But first..." Faramir crumbled a piece of bread, "tell me how many men I lost."

o0o

Walking side by side, and silent, the Steward and the Prince passed through the halls of the houses of healing. Servants stepped out of their way, bowing to them, and one held open the door as they went into the garden.

Ignoring the paths, they took a straight way across the neat lawn, heading with purpose towards the walls. They came to a halt near a clump of asphodel, a few early flowers like white stars against the stone. From the corner of his eye, Imrahil watched as the Steward took in his first sight of the battered Pelennor – its homesteads, smoking and ruined, and the tents of the captains that circled the city walls. Their bright banners fluttered in the fresh spring breeze. Denethor's hand hovered for a moment above the stone of the wall, and then came down slowly, heavily, to rest upon it.

The wind caught at the long stems of the flowers standing beside them, and they wavered uncertainly. And then Imrahil began to speak, his voice soft, and he watched for even the smallest motion from the man that stood against him.

"Make no mistake, my lord Denethor, but if the choice were mine and mine alone, you would now be in chains."

Denethor remained almost still, but Imrahil saw his hand press down against the wall.

"As it is," the Prince continued, "I answer now to a higher authority and – at his counsel and by his grace – you continue to move freely." He paused. "In this house – and for the moment, at least."

Denethor brushed his thumb back and forth against the stone, like a caress.

"There are more pressing matters than you at hand," Imrahil said. "The Captains of the West have debated this morning, and we are resolved in a common purpose – to draw the Eye away from where the Ringbearer and his companion were last seen. We set forth for the Black Gate two days hence. It is a bold strategy and one that has little promise of success. But in it lies our best hope."

Denethor's laugh was short and bit like winter wind sharpened on the mountains. Imrahil pressed on, resolutely.

"We send the greater strength of the Rohirrim against the enemy in Anórien. The city will not find itself threatened by Mordor. Which brings me to you."

Denethor continued to stare out eastwards.

"Again, make no mistake – I would gladly see you stripped of your office, and authority pass to your son – or to another until his strength has returned. But this would lead to questions – and here I am mindful first of Faramir. As yet, your attempt upon his life is known only to those who saw it, also to myself, to the king of Rohan, and to the lord Aragorn. When Faramir is healed, then he shall be told. At the moment, such news might well finish the task you started. And there would be other questions, around the city. Why does the lord Denethor no longer command? Who indeed now rules in Minas Tirith? Such uncertainty would not serve in these last days. And so the banner of the stewards still flies above the White Tower – by the grace of the King. When we return—"

"_If_ you return."

Denethor turned his head, and Imrahil saw that he was now smiling.

"Make no mistake, my lord prince," Denethor said, "the house of stewards has ruled this land since the line of kings ended. And so we remain, and shall remain – in unbroken line – constant, unyielding, implacable in the protection of our charge. If one comes to claim the throne, that claim must be examined. This is not a matter of preference. It is a matter of _law_." The hand upon the stone was heavy now. "This is the realm of Gondor. A man may not simply raise an army, bring it to the gates of the City, and by that threat demand the throne. That is _tyranny_, my lord, and the Men of Minas Tirith have stood long against it, whilst others played in cockleboats along the coast, or wandered the empty wilds of the North."

With effort, Imrahil marshalled a measured reply. "Fought long, you say? And yet your absence throughout the siege and the battle has not gone unremarked. But in one matter you speak the truth, when you say that the line of stewards is unbroken. For despite your efforts, the Lord Faramir lives yet, and is still well loved in this, his City."

Denethor withdrew his hand from the wall, and began to toy with the plants at his side, running his finger along the thin white petals of the flowers. He took a long green stalk within his hand, bending it down, and down. And, for a moment, it seemed to Imrahil that he saw those starry flowers shrivel and the stem snap—

"And Faramir loves the City in return, and knows well his duty," the Steward said softly. He released the stem, and it sprang up, straight once more. "I shall take my leave of you now, my lord," he said, and seemed to sigh a little. "I would be at my son's side." He turned, and began to make his way back to the house.

"Wait," Imrahil said.

Denethor stopped, and looked back. To most men, the Steward would appear unmoved, but Imrahil knew him well, and he saw the eyelids blink, saw the quake in the other man's throat as he swallowed and then contained himself. Imrahil took savage pleasure in these signs. He took a step forwards, narrowing the gap between them.

"This city is rotten with your spies and servants," he said, "but do not doubt that we watch you in turn." His voice slipped lower, and he struggled to control it. "_If you touch him... If you _harm_ him..._"

But the threat was empty, and they both knew it. For in two days, the Captains would set forth from the City, taking hopeless war to an Enemy bent on their destruction.


	3. Chapter III: Falls the Shadow

**Chapter III**

**Falls the Shadow**

A cock crew.

Faramir woke caught in the gap between the dreaming and the waking world. The shades seized their chance, and beat on against the early morning light.

..._fallen kings at a lost meeting of ways... the sharp and broken teeth of mountains, their jaws opening..._

Faramir opened his eyes. He was sweating. He blinked hard and jerked his head to clear it, and sat up. He was alone.

_...and they are two days gone... _

Pushing the thought aside, Faramir reached out his hand, grasping for the cup that stood on the table by his bedside. He drank the stale water like a man lost long in a stony land. As he drained the cup, the faded little room began to take shape, softening the jagged edges of the dream.

He set the cup down again and looked round. The curtains were drawn back, and the window stood ajar. Sunlight streamed through, touching upon the wooden table, the blue counterpane, the pale skin of his hand resting upon the bed. But the air was still, and the walls watched back.

_I must leave this room today_, he decided. _If only for a little while. _

He took a deep and steadying breath and then, with care, pulled himself round to sit on the edge of the bed. There he rested, staring down at his hands upon his knees and willing himself to stay upright. When at last the trembling stilled, he set his palm flat upon the table and pushed himself up to his feet.

The world did not turn upside down. Encouraged, he took a step forward; a second brought him within reach of the wall by the window. He breathed in again, and then let go of the table. For a long moment, he wavered, and then he stood up straight. He was back on his feet.

Faramir broke into a wide smile at his achievement – it quickly turned into a soft, self-mocking laugh. Outside, faint, there was birdsong, and he listened to the call. Then, brushing his fingers against the wall, he moved slowly to the foot of the bed. He stopped, and contemplated this new view of his chamber.

_Only a little further to the door_, he thought. _I shall reach it!_

He took a few more steps, ignoring the sound of his breathing becoming laboured. _I would like to be outside_, he told himself. _I would like to feel the wind upon my face and taste fresh air again; I would like to see the sun on the stone and hear the birds more clearly. _He stopped for a moment to rest, putting his hand upon the arm of the chair that stood by the hearth. He stared at the little fire burning there, gathering his strength for his last attempt on the door – and then a thought struck him.

_Clothes._

He was wearing only a nightshirt. He looked urgently around the room, but he could see nothing that he might use. And then a sudden weariness overtook him, and he knew that even if he could find something to wear, he was too tired now to dress. And even if he did make good his escape, he would by no means reach the garden.

Defeated, he sank into the nearby chair. There was a blanket laid upon it and he pulled it around him. He closed his eyes.

_...there had been a star, a fading star, and he had longed to look at it, but dared not raise his eyes... for others were watching him, and he could feel the press upon his back... _

There was a knock on the door. Faramir's eyes shot open.

"Who's there?" he said. His hand, he realized, was clutching at the arm of the chair. The door opened, just a crack, and then a little figure came in.

A _perian_. Here, in the City. Faramir gazed at him in wonder.

The Halfling smiled at him. "My lord," he said, bowing low, "I am Meriadoc son of Saradoc. My cousin Peregrin – Pippin – asked me to keep an eye on you."

And it seemed, Faramir thought, noting the bindings about the _perian_'s arm, that he too was a guest in this House. Faramir lowered his head in greeting.

"Master Meriadoc," he said, "You do me a great honour. Forgive me that I do not rise to greet you." He pointed down at his visitor's arm. "I believe you might understand."

The Halfling bowed low again. Faramir gestured to the chair at the other side of the hearth. "Will you keep me company for a while, Master Meriadoc?"

"Gladly," he replied, lightly. "If you will call me Merry!"

"Merry," Faramir said, and smiled.

When the Halfling had made himself comfortable in the seat, he drew from a pocket some little russet apples, and offered one to Faramir. "I found a store of these," he said, "and it is far better to eat in company than alone. A pipe too would not go amiss..." he stopped himself, and sighed. "Although when I smoke I think of _him_..." A shadow passed across his round and cheerful face. "Of King Théoden."

"Only a little news has come to me," Faramir said quietly, reaching out to retrieve the apple, "And I have heard naught of the last ride of the Lord of the Mark." He set aside, for the moment, his own questions – concerning his brother's end and his father's state – and asked, "Would you tell me?"

They sat then, and talked of the Muster of Rohan, of the Riders and their songs, of bold Dernhelm and woses and horns blowing wildly like thunder in the mountains. With skill, Faramir led his companion's tales back towards happier days and homelier places; a strange fellow that danced along a withy-path; the proper way to gather mushrooms; a birthday speech given beneath the branches of a fair Party Tree. And they ate their apples, the sweet juice running down their fingers, and laughed amidst their cares while the birds trilled joyously beyond the window.

The morning wore on, and the sun passed across the sky. All of a sudden, the door creaked open. Faramir and Merry stopped talking, and turned to see the Steward, standing on the threshold, very still, staring in.

"My lord," Faramir said, in greeting, with a smile.

"Why are you not abed?" Denethor took a step towards him. The light from the window in the corridor behind him cast a shadow across the room. He seemed to have noticed the Halfling not at all. "Why are you not resting?"

"I _am_ resting." Faramir tapped the arm of the chair. "And indeed I need my strength. For I intend to walk in the garden today."

"My son, it is but seven days since you were brought to this house near death. I forbid it—"

"Father."

The old man stopped dead. A moment passed as they watched each other, and then Faramir turned to look towards the window. "The day is so fair. The sun is shining and I can hear the birds singing." _And who can say how many days like this remain to us?_ "And besides," he said, holding up an apple core, and smiling at Merry, "I am much better for having eaten."

o0o

Merry left them to their own devices. He went to the kitchen and amused the cook and replenished his stores. But, only a little later, from the window of his chamber, he was able to watch as the steward and his son walked to the walls and looked out eastwards. Side by side they stood, very alike; tall men, straight and proud, like statues, last keepers of a crumbling realm. And the sight of them called to Merry's mind another sight he had lately seen, when he had crossed into Gondor – of the Argonath, its first kings, guarding its gates, still watching all that dared pass within, as the stone weathered and the birds made homes amidst their ruin.

Merry looked beyond them, northwards. _Oh Pippin,_ he thought, _how I wish we too might still be standing side by side!_

o0o

The sunlight that morning could not pierce the sadness that wreathed the Lady Éowyn, and she took herself to the Warden of the Houses of Healing. "Sir," she said to him, "I would have you release me."

"Lady," he said, "I have not that authority—"

"Who, then, has authority? Who commands in this City?"

"The Lord Húrin commands the men of Gondor, and there is a marshal over the Riders," he said, "But the Lord Denethor is Steward of the City. His son, the Lord Faramir, took great hurt in the battle, and the Steward remains in this House at his side."

"Then bring me to him," she said. "I can lie no longer in sloth."

The Warden led her from the House into the garden and there, seated side by side upon a bench were two men. As she came nearer, and they rose to greet her, Éowyn's first thought was that they were very like another she had met already. The old man was stern, and so still he seemed to be carved from the very stone of the city. The young man was grave too; they could only, she thought, be father and son. Would she crash against them, as she had against the other, like a bird caught in a gale and harmed against the rocks?

The Warden bowed to them. "This is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan," he said, "who rode with her King and was hurt, but is unhappy in these Houses—"

"Through no lack of care," Éowyn said swiftly. "Do not misunderstand me! But I wish to be released from this house. I cannot remain here, caged—"

The Lord Denethor waved to the Warden to dismiss him, and then observed Éowyn as if from a distance. After a moment, he looked beyond her at the House. "We are each of us prisoners here," he said at last. "In our own way."

Hearing him, Éowyn knew he cared nothing for her troubles. And the other beside him was silent, watching her coolly, listening to the words, and making no sign. _Am I always to be treated thus? To be ordered and disposed of at the whims of men?_ It was a bitter thought. _And after all? Have I come so far and won so little?_

"The healers would have me lie abed for seven days," Éowyn said. The Steward looked at her with unmoving eyes, and she heard her voice falter. "And my window does not look eastwards..."

"Eastwards?" All at once, the Lord Denethor seemed to see her properly. "Do you seek the Shadow too, my lady?" He sounded hungry. "Or do you look still for hope? It has passed beyond our grasp—"

"Sir." The other man spoke for the first time; his voice was gentle, Éowyn thought, but firm. "It is but a small favour that is asked, and easy enough to grant. Lady," he said, and turned to her. She saw unwanted pity reflected in his grey eyes; pity, and steel. "Your window does not look eastwards? That can be amended. I shall speak to the Warden."

She knew colour had crept into her cheeks. And it seemed he was not yet finished with her.

"This garden is fair," the Lord Faramir said to her, "and the Sun shines upon it yet. Stay in our care, lady, and take your rest, and walk in the garden as you will. We shall be here too, no doubt, my father and I; walking and waiting – and looking east, whither our hope has gone."

He stopped then, drew in a breath, and reached out to set his hand upon the Steward's arm, as if the effort of speech had drawn some of the life from him. His father claimed the hand within his own and, as he did, something stirred upon his face. He addressed the Lady Éowyn directly.

"Do as my son proposes," the Lord Denethor said, "if you desire it."

Éowyn did them both a courtesy. "By your leave, I will walk here," she said, and her eyes strayed towards Faramir, "and I thank you for your kindness." She turned away from them and went back to the house; and, as she walked, she knew herself to be the object of their regard.

o0o

On rode the Armies of the West, passing through the green lands of Ithilien, emptied now of bird and beast, but watched. On rode the Armies of the West, and at the Crossroads they heralded the lost and broken King. On rode the Armies of the West, into an eaten country, where no creature moved nor bird sang, and yet voices still whispered in the cruel air.

And beyond the wall of the mountains, beyond all aid, their fate crept on, through a dry land gasping under fading stars.

o0o

Each morning now, the Steward came to his son's chamber, to take him into the gardens. Each morning they walked for a while and stood looking East, and then, since Faramir tired easily, they sat on a bench that gave them a view of the whole garden – with the House to their right and the walls, and beyond, to the left.

This morning, Faramir had brought some of his breakfast outside with him. He sat crumbling a precious piece of bread, throwing the bits to the birds, and all the while his father spoke.

"We must prepare ourselves," Denethor said. "It will not be long now ere the Enemy strikes again."

_There is still the fool's hope_, Faramir thought, remembering his last sight of the Halflings, disappearing like shadows into the woods of Ithilien. He looked with pity upon his father's face. _Mithrandir spoke truly, saying it would burn your mind away till naught remained but ashes. What choice did I have? There was no real choice. _

"It will not be long ere we are encircled once again," Denethor said. His eyes drifted back to his son. Faramir broke off some more bread and threw them to the birds that were waiting hungrily. They dived for the pieces.

"Some must make ready to leave the City," Denethor said. "You shall go with them, I deem, leading those that remain up into the mountains—"

"I shall not forsake the City," Faramir said. He cast the last bit of bread across the lawn. A sparrow, swift and clever, shot out in front of the others to claim her prize. "I shall be here throughout the defence. And I shall ride for the river again, should the need arise."

"This was not your counsel but two weeks ago—"

"Much has changed in that short time," Faramir replied. "Much has been lost – too much. With the forces we now have from the South, our defences are stronger." He knew he was trembling, and struggled to hold himself still. "We _can_ hold; and for longer now! And let them take the river and the field and the gate and each circle of this city one by one, but they will have to hang me from the Tower or burn my body where it falls ere I yield. Not one inch of the land that we lost and then took back will go unfought." He saw his father's eyes upon him; felt the fire within him smother; felt cold sweat break out upon his brow. Fiercely he summoned the last of his strength. "This I swear," he breathed, and his hands fell before him.

The garden was quiet now. The birds, seeing no further chance of feasting, had departed.

"And think you that would be your fate, Lord Faramir?" There was no anger in Denethor's voice, no fury – only certainty, cold and hard as the dark days that lie in the heart of winter. "Think you that the Dark Lord will be so gracious as to grant you a swift death? No ships lying under black sails will deliver us this time; no horsemen will come riding hither from the North." Denethor reached out, placing his hand upon his son's. "He will seal the City and leave us to starve," he whispered. "He will watch us rot and mock us as our hope sinks further. And we – you and I, the last lords of Minas Tirith – we will _beg_ to become his slaves."

Faramir bowed his head. Fear washed cold through his veins. Father and son sat in silence. At length, Faramir dared to raise his eyes. It was still light, and – at the far reach of the garden, touched by the white spring sun – he saw the Lady Éowyn, pale and silent, walking alone by the grace of the Steward of the City.

o0o

Pippin heard it first, coming to him from another's tale amidst all the clamour and the chaos of battle. Sam heard it, ringing triumphant round the rock and the ruin of the wasted land. And Merry heard it too, as he sat in the garden of the city of the Sea-kings; heard the beat of wings against the air, and a voice as clear as a trumpet, as clear as the horns of the north that had lately heralded the indomitable dawn – he heard the pardon of the Lords of the West:

_The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!_

o0o

On the fifth day after the Lady Éowyn was first brought to the steward and his son, she came from the House and, seeing Faramir alone, she called to him and came to stand beside him. The day was cold, and the sky desolate. As they stood together, she looked towards to the Black Gate, and she shivered. Seeing this, he took his cloak and put it about her shoulders.

"You are still unwell," she protested.

"Perhaps a little fever," he allowed. "But not enough to trouble me greatly."

"Your father fears for you," she said, and glanced at him. "He is ever by your side."

The wind was coming in from the North. Faramir turned to greet it. "He has already lost one son, that was dearly loved – and he nearly lost the other," he replied. He looked back at her, and his eyes were touched with pity, or maybe something else. "Perhaps," he said, "he fears to lose again what he has but lately found."

She reached up for the clasp on the cloak, her hand placed as if to shield herself; but: "Not all wounds are to the body," she admitted.

"No," he said, turning back to the grey sky, "not all." He gave a sigh, and put out his hand to support himself. He was shivering. She lowered her hand, placing it beside his on the worn stone of the wall. They stood and waited. No leaf rustled on the trees, no birds called out. The very light of the sky seemed blurred.

"It reminds me of Númenor," he said.

"Of Númenor?"

"Of the land that was lost, lost in darkness, darkness unescapable."

"Then you think Darkness is coming?" She trembled. "Darkness Unescapable?" Her hand crept closer to his, his to hers, warm to touch.

Behind them, footsteps sounded on the stone. They turned to see who approached. "Father," Faramir breathed, turning back to the broken wall.

The Lord Denethor came to stand beside his son and, as Éowyn watched, he removed his heavy cloak, and placed its weight upon his son's shoulders. Barely had he settled the mantle upon him when a great wind rose up and passed through all the circles of the City.

Éowyn turned to the man standing close beside her. Her hair, caught in the breeze, lifted, and she looked through the golden veil at Faramir, and she smiled. "Like the darkness has been swept away!" she said to him.

He was smiling back. "Like the land has been washed clean," he told her. Their hands fell away from the wall and, unwatched, met at last, and clasped.

All the bells of the City began to ring. Hearing them, they laughed together. And then Faramir thought he heard his father gasp – but when he turned to look at him, the face of the Lord of the City was unaltered, and his eyes, grey and hard and empty, were still staring East.

And from out of the East a great Eagle came, and it flew high above them, and it screamed.


	4. Chapter IV: The Next Debate

**Chapter IV**

**The Next Debate**

On a green field circled with trees, the Ringbearers were brought before the King of the West, and their names entered into song. There, beneath dark leaves and blossom of red and gold, many stories were told, and many tears fell, like spring rain, and laughter welled up sweet as wine.

And there, in a city of tents raised beneath the trees and the stars, the Heir of Elendil gathered around him his counsellors for the next debate. There met the Prince of Dol Amroth, and the Sons of Elrond, and the King of the Mark, and two also from Aragorn's northern kin. And Gandalf too joined them, although now he sat apart, smoking his pipe, and listening.

"Beyond all hope the day is won," Aragorn said, "but that victory may yet fall from our grasp. What, then, do we know of the mind of the Steward? What do we know of his purpose?"

"Of his mind," said Imrahil, "I do not care to guess. But of his purpose? He will not accept your claim, I think."

"Refuse?" Éomer said. "He would not dare—!"

"Tyranny, he called it," Imrahil said, watching his liege-lord closely, "to raise an army, bring it to the gates of the City, and so demand the throne. But, Mithrandir," and here the Prince turned to look at the wizard, silent and wreathed in smoke, "you spoke with him also, and saw him in Rath Dínen. Did the Steward allow you a glimpse of his thought?"

Gandalf replied reluctantly. "Too much, perhaps, he might think now. And while he may have said much in that madness which he would now have unsaid, he named himself the Steward of Anárion's House, not of Isildur's. A ragged house, he called it, long bereft of lordship and dignity."

"Such subtleties may matter to one such as Denethor," Éomer said, "But do they carry weight in law?"

"The Stewards once before rejected a claim from the northern line," Aragorn replied, glancing at his kinsmen, sitting grim-faced and silent at his right hand. "Arvedui was refused – as both heir of Isildur and husband of the daughter of King Ondoher – and so the North Kingdom perished."

"And yet," said Elladan, "it is the devices of Elendil that we brought to you from the North, which you have displayed upon the field, and under which your victory was won. The signs of the High King. Therein lies your claim."

"And what, in truth," Éomer said, "could the Steward do to enforce his rejection of your claim? The House of Eorl greets you as the rightful king of Gondor, and there are Riders in the City still—"

"Yet I am loath," Aragorn replied, "either to win or to hold fast my throne by the threat of forces drawn from another kingdom."

"And such would give more weight to the Steward's assertion that your claim had been secured unlawfully," Imrahil said. "For such a reason too, sire," and here he bowed his head gracefully to the Sons of Elrond and to the Dúnedain, sitting watchful nearby, "I would counsel that our chief concern must be with the lords of Gondor themselves." He lowered his head again, this time to Aragorn, and spoke softly. "For myself, as I said to you in our last debate, I hold you my liege-lord, and your wish is to me command."

"But what of the lords of the fiefs?" Éomer said. "They have sat in council with Denethor for many years. Where do you believe their allegiances might fall?"

"The word of the Prince of Dol Amroth carries weight throughout Belfalas and beyond, into the southern fiefs," Imrahil replied. "From Anfalas, Golasgil will stand with us. And surely not all in the south," the Prince looked once again straight at Aragorn, "have forgotten Thorongil, who delivered them from the threat of Umbar."

"I do not doubt that Thorongil is remembered in Gondor," Aragorn replied. "And let us remember too that not four weeks have passed since I freed many in the south from their slavery. In Angbor of Lamedon I have put my faith, and in all the people of those lands."

"And yet for all their fair vales and fairer folk," Elrohir said, bowing his head in turn to the Prince, "the southern lands are not the whole of the kingdom, nor even its most vital part. What of Lossarnach? More – what of Minas Tirith itself? Without it, I deem, Gondor cannot be held."

"Then let us speak of the City," said Éomer. "Elfhelm commands the Riders there, but on them, it seems, we must not rely unless in direst need. In the Lord Denethor we have no faith. But what of the men of the city?"

"The Lord Húrin is Warden, and commands the Guard," Imrahil replied. "Without the Guard, Minas Tirith cannot be ours – or not without force. And the Guard have shown themselves loyal to the Steward... even in his madness."

"But _beyond_?" Éomer asked. "Not beyond, surely!"

"Húrin is kinsman by marriage to the Lord Denethor," Imrahil said. "And little of what passes in the city escapes him. It is in part through his faithfulness, his watchfulness, that the city has remained steady throughout many years of war. Obedience, above all, is what Denethor commands—"

"But love?" Aragorn asked. "That, I think, was the privilege of his sons."

An uneasy silence fell. Imrahil broke it first, his voice uncertain. "If I know aught of my nephew, sire," he said, "then he will hear your claim, and fairly. But... obedience, you say, is what Denethor commands. And in all the years of his service, Faramir has obeyed his father's will in all things. He rode to the river against his own counsel."

"Like the swift sons of Eorl, we said of Boromir in the Mark," Éomer said. "Of his brother I know less, save it was said by some amongst us that he was his father's son." The silence fell again, and Aragorn did not speak his own mind, that in all his dealings with the House of the Stewards, he seemed ever fated to fall between father and son.

At last, into the quiet, Gandalf spoke. "Once," he said. "He went against Denethor's will once. He knew his father's mind, and he did not bring the Ringbearer before him – nor the Ring."

The council broke. Little more, it seemed to them, could be done now until they drew closer to Minas Tirith and learnt from messengers more of the disposition of the Tower Guard, and of the minds of Húrin, Faramir – and Denethor himself. The world had changed, Aragorn thought; and all their counsels of the evening rested upon one foundation – that Denethor would not accept his claim. These forty years had been but days; days since they had stood together as captains of Gondor, with Ecthelion between them. And yet, despite all that had passed, it seemed to Aragorn that a choice remained to the Steward of Gondor, and that not all hope had been extinguished.

At length, only Gandalf remained of his counsellors. They went outside together to stand beneath the trees.

It was night. "A bitter jest it would be, indeed," Aragorn said, at last, "to have broken one siege of Gondor only to set another." And when the other did not reply, he said, "You keep your counsel closer than ever you did, old friend!"

Gandalf's soft breath of laughter could be seen in the night air. "My enemy has departed; my task is complete! This," he gestured around him, "this is your charge now, lord. Make of it what you will."

And when Aragorn looked around him, he saw all of the West cloaked in darkness, and through the thickness of the trees, only a hint of stars.

o0o

Upon the city of Gondor doubt hung; doubt, mingled with muted joy. Dead lay the King of Rohan in their citadel, their lords lay hidden in the circles above – and another had come in the night, then ridden forth, and now a great darkness had lifted. At times, singing would break out in the streets. But rumours rustled through all the circles of a great burning in Rath Dínen, and from the citadel came nothing but silence. All of the city seemed to be waiting for a sign, for a move to be made.

As the afternoon lengthened, the Lord Faramir wearied of circling the garden and, taking the Lady Éowyn's counsel, bade her a good evening and retired to his chamber. Inside, he found that a fire had been lit in the hearth despite the warmth of the day. He opened the window, breathed in the fresh air, and removed his surcoat, casting it upon the bed. Then he sat down in the chair by the fire, and strove to hold off sleep. Soon enough there was a knock at the door. He took a moment to check and to gather himself before answering.

"Enter."

The door opened. Denethor stood for a moment upon the threshold, looking in, and then: "You will freeze," he said, and, passing across the room to the window, he shut it, and drew the curtains. He went to the bed, picking up the surcoat that lay there, folding it, and placing it down once more. Then he took the seat opposite his son, and came to rest looking into the fire. Throughout, Faramir sat, waiting, and trying to ascertain something of his father's state of mind.

At length, Denethor roused himself. "Work has already begun clearing away the damage on the Pelennor," he said. "It is worse even than the year that the river broke its banks." He looked up from the fire, at his son. "Do you remember that year, Faramir? Boro..." He stopped himself. "Your brother had made me promise to take you fishing, but it was not safe. Do you remember?"

Faramir did not remember, nor did he care to make himself a liar. "I must have been very young," he said.

"Young?" His father looked back at the fire. "Young. Yes. Yes, you must have been."

The room was becoming very close. Faramir loosened the fastenings on his shirt, and then leaned forwards to begin work on his boots. He moved too quickly, and drew in a sharp breath as his shoulder baulked at the movement. His father reached out to aid him, but Faramir held up his hand. "No need!" he said, and Denethor withdrew.

He worked on, keeping his head bent down towards the task. After a little while, Denethor began to speak again. "The river..." he said. "When the bridge was broken, I thought that I had lost you. Both of you, at once. And then you returned, victorious—"

For himself, Faramir could not speak of it as a victory. "That was Boromir's doing."

"After you rode to the river... I thought that I... And then your uncle brought you... brought you back to me. He said that you had done great deeds."

Faramir kept his head lowered. So here they were again, at last. What path would his father choose this time? When he did look up, his father was staring back into the fire. "Great deeds," Denethor said, softly – and it seemed to Faramir that once more he could taste the bitterness of those dark hours, and of the many that had led to it; could see again how it was always the acts of obedience that had won his father's favour and wasted his spirit.

"It was a rout," he replied, bending back down. "There was no distinction to it. None." He pulled off his boots, with force, and kicked them away, towards the bed. They fell in a heap. Denethor began to make a move towards them, and then checked himself, and stayed in the chair. A silence fell across the room, in which Faramir could hear only the sound of the fire crackling, and his own breathing, which became, in time, quieter and steadier. There was sweat upon the palms of his hands. He wiped them on his shirt.

"You have spent much time with the Lady Éowyn."

His father's close guard had precluded Faramir from speaking to that lady as much as he desired, yet he seized his chances when he could, and he watched her in turn as she walked in the garden. When he looked at her, it seemed to him that she was mantled in grief; but when he spoke to her, some of that sorrow would lift, he thought. It served to lighten his own heart. When they spoke together, Faramir caught a glimpse of a life that might lie beyond the walls of the House, tasted a little how sweet it might be if duty and love were not ever set at war with one another. "I have," he answered.

"Such a match would be welcome to all, I am certain," his father said. "The alliance between our houses is an old one, as Théoden remembered. Our forefathers – his, ours – swore an oath such that none have made since Elendil himself. The Stewards of the City and the Kings of the Golden Hall. It would be well done to strengthen that tie, Faramir."

Strengthen it against whom? From where did the Enemy now press? Not East. North, then, from Arnor? South, from Belfalas? West? "We have by no means spoken of marriage!"

But Denethor was no longer listening. He had leaned forwards in his chair, towards his son, and an odd, eager light had come to his eyes. "You do not remember your grandsire, do you?

"Sir?"

"My father."

Ecthelion had died the year after Faramir's birth. He had no memory of him, although he had at one time wondered if it would have made a difference to have known his father as something other than the Steward, to have seen him as servant as well as lord. "I was very young," he answered.

"Ah!" Denethor smiled, and clasped his hands together. "He delighted in his grandsons – both of you – but you in particular. A second son is a rarity, in these late days of our house."

This tale was new – And why, Faramir wondered, had it not been told sooner? His anger flared afresh.

"He was a man given to giving his love," Denethor said. "In that he was much like... like Boromir."

The anger wavered, and passed. For who had there been to tell such a tale? Boromir would not have remembered; Finduilas was gone. And – so far as Faramir could recall – Denethor had never spoken of Ecthelion as anything other than the Steward before him. A vague and insubstantial figure to the child that Faramir had been (for who else could be Steward but Denethor himself?) but now, it seemed, a man as vital as Boromir.

Denethor was still speaking, very softly. "No man should outlive his sons," he was saying, "and all men, perhaps, should live to see their sons' sons." His eye fell upon Faramir once more. "It would be a good match, and well done."

And that, Faramir guessed, would be the only call he would hear for pardon, for all the dark hours and the hard words, and the last the darkest and hardest of all. _You would rather they were Boromir's sons,_ he thought; and only through effort and practice did he leave it unsaid. They sat facing each other, still, with the fire and the silence between them, until: "I think I shall sleep now," Faramir said, and Denethor nodded, and rose. Coming over to where Faramir was sitting, he brushed at his son's hair, bringing his hand briefly to rest upon his brow. It was strong, and gentle, the hand of a great lord, and unexpectedly cool. And as Denethor began to move away, Faramir reached out, putting his own hand upon his father's arm, holding him. He searched, for some sign, for something.

"Father," he said, softly, "did you wish to say something? Tell me something?"

For a moment, Denethor's face seemed to alter, to be at war with itself; half-hope and half-despair. And then the Steward mastered himself. He shook his head. "Only that tomorrow I shall leave this House and resume my authority in the City." He set his hand upon Faramir's, resting it there for a moment, then gently letting go. "We have a great deal of work to do, you and I. Our City is indomitable! It will arise anew." Then he bent, and set a kiss upon the top of his son's head, and left, closing the door with care behind him.

Faramir sat for a while longer watching the fire. At length, he rose and crossed to the window and drew back the curtains. It was evening, and the light had a last, passing glow that ebbed slowly under his watch, turning the trees in the garden from green to black. In time, the red sun set. The room darkened, and Faramir lay down upon his bed, falling into a deep sleep.

In that sleep, he wandered long down cold corridors of stone, the echo of his own footsteps the only sound. Then, all of a sudden, the passages ended, and he found himself in the forest; a confusion of trees whose leaves were heavy with blossom bright as blood. He walked on, half-hope and half-despair; but if there was a way through, he could not discern it, either in the path ahead or in his own purpose.

He woke before the dawn. He rose to greet it, watching from his window as it came in from the East. Young light revealed to him the half-restored homesteads of the Pelennor, as his father had described them. Beyond, the river cut like a blade through the field of his vision and, upon it, he caught a sudden glimpse of broken stone. And then, by some gift of far sight, aided perhaps by the memory of the falling bridge, Faramir beheld in full the ruin of Osgiliath. And as this hideous dream unfolded, it seemed to him that he could hear Frodo's voice, speaking again the words he had said in the forest, beneath the Shadow and the news of Boromir's fall: _Shall there be two cities_ _grinning at each other across a dead land?_

And yet, when that vision departed, and there was only the cold light of day, what remained with Faramir was the change he had watched pass over his father's face, as if, amidst the bitterness, Denethor too had tasted something new; cool clear wine – or perhaps an apple, sharp and sweet.


	5. Chapter V: Treason and Plot

**Chapter V**

**Treason and Plot**

Two cities now stood in balance, in opposition. On the plain of the Pelennor a city of tents had been spread out, and the sun shone upon it, and the wind lifted its brave banners, and men's hearts rose with them, and their voices in song. But beyond the wall, once-broken barrier, stood the city of stone, and within this men watched, and waited, and did not yet dare to speak or make a move.

Secluded high in the Houses of Healing, the Lady Éowyn and the Lord Faramir seized whatever moments they could alone together. Hand-in-hand they walked, beneath the cover of the trees, away from sight, and they shared much with little speech.

Returning one day to the path, Éowyn saw that they had been joined by another. He stood at the far end of the garden, and he did not approach. He was very tall, like all the men of the Stoningland that she had met, and with the same pale skin and dark hair. Faramir nodded in greeting to him.

"Who is that man?" she said. "He has come here at this time every day, to look at you." _To look at us._

Faramir did not reply. They walked on for a while, Faramir guiding them until their backs were turned to the visitor.

"His name is Húrin," he said in a low voice. "He is Warden of the Keys; the safekeeping of the City is his duty. Some say," he dropped his voice further, "that he is my father's eyes in the City."

_Spies and whispers_, she thought. Her heart quickened, and not only from fear. _Did I truly believe that the Court of the Fountain would differ much from Meduseld?_

"And what do _you_ say?" she asked.

Faramir forced a smile to his lips. "That he is my kinsman by marriage, for he wedded Írildë, my father's sister. And that once, when I was a boy, he took me round the City and showed me all the secret ways that were used throughout the Kin-Strife!"

_He is trying not to frighten me_, she thought. _He will have to learn not to do that._

"And yet," she said, in a cool voice, "your kinsman and guide holds you here as a prisoner."

She thought she felt his grip tighten upon her arm.

"Perhaps," he murmured. "Perhaps."

They walked to the walls. Looking out, she saw the sign of the white horse, upon the green field below. "Sir," she said softly, "am I a prisoner here?" She placed her hand upon his. "Speak truly," she said. "Without fear. Speak always to me thus."

"A prisoner?" He looked out beyond the walls. "Not you. Not yet."

o0o

Húrin came again the next day, and the day after, but he never approached. And then, one day – a hot day, oppressive, when the air could not stir even a blade of grass – he walked over to them, calling out, "Lord Faramir!"

The steward's son lifted his hand in greeting. "Kinsman!"

They embraced. "I am glad to see you well again," the older man said, and drew back, and clasped the younger man's hands between his own.

"And I am glad to speak to you at last," Faramir replied. "But tell me – for I receive little in the way of news here – how did your son fare in the battle? How fared my cousin, Hador?"

Húrin's face darkened in grief. "Alas, he died in the last defence."

Faramir bowed his head.

"But before he departed for battle," Húrin said, "he spoke to me of his love for you. And he bade me tell you that he would gladly follow you, wherever you would lead, even into the darkness." He leaned forwards, and kissed the younger man upon the brow. Softly, almost soundlessly (but Éowyn was used to whispers), he said, "As would I."

And he relinquished his hold upon Faramir's hands, and bowed his head, and left them alone together.

They watched him go. "Tell me," said Éowyn, "for I know little of the laws and the loyalties of this land – do the Men of Minas Tirith recognize the Lord Aragorn's claim?"

"I can speak with certainty only for the Lord Denethor," his son replied.

"And the Lord Húrin?"

"As for that..." Faramir's eyes strayed towards the house. "I would not dare to conjecture."

_Or not, at least,_ _out loud_. "And speaking for yourself, sir? Do you dare?"

Faramir smiled and took her hand. "You're cold, Éowyn. Let us return to the house and sit by the fire."

The next day, as they walked in the garden, they looked for the Lord Húrin, but he did not come again, not the next day, nor any day after. And the Lord Denethor, having removed himself now from the Houses of Healing, was restored to the Citadel. The white banner of the Stewards of the House of Anárion was raised above the Tower of Guard, and the men of Minas Tirith watched, and waited, and did not speak again – nor dared another move.

o0o

No news came now to the lords-in-waiting on the plain, for Húrin, who had of late been their chief source, had fallen silent, and what the reason for that might be they did not know and feared to guess. And thus it was that one fair evening, as the sun fell in the sky, the King of the Mark came to the King of the West, and spoke to him of his fears.

"It is days now since we have learned any news from the City, and my heart is uneasy," Éomer said. "We must put our trust in Húrin, you said – and yet now it seems he has forsaken us, and chosen where his loyalties must fall. The City could be shrouded in smoke, for all that we can learn of it! And yet of one thing I am certain – that my sister is held there, in the grasp of a man who saw his own son as fuel for the fire— Nay, Lord!" Éomer said, as Aragorn lifted his hands in appeasement, "I must speak! I loved you from the moment you rose from the grass and called to me, but for my sister I must speak! The Lord Faramir – he is the key. Which way will he turn? Again and again we return to this question, but now I say – we can no longer wait for the Lord Faramir to decide his own mind. We must bring him to us."

Aragorn set his hands upon the young man's shoulder. "Brethren, I named us – and so we are, and our sons shall be, until our world and our works sink back into the grass. But what would you have me do? Set father against son? Is that the only way to claim the City? Better it had been lost. Better that when the Gate fell the servants of our Enemy had levelled it. Would you make me now the cause of such a ruin?"

The red sun setting was like fire on the mountain-top. "You did not set father against son," Éomer replied. "The Lord Denethor chose that path himself. And therefore, for the sake of my sister, whom I love beyond all price, I say – let the Lord Faramir learn of his father's deed. For only after such knowledge can he truly decide which Lord he desires to serve."

o0o

And on the city walls, the Steward of Gondor and his second son stood and looked out as that same sun departed, and the black night crept in from the mountains, stealing across Ithilien, crossing the river, covering the plain and all the tents that stood there with banners waving.

"See how they encircle us!" the Steward cried. "We shall not yield to threat!"

Lifting his hand he pointed out a green flag upon which a white horse rode to battle. "Such is Thorongil's claim. Where law cannot secure the kingship, might will force it from our stewardship. How, then, does this beggar at our Gate differ from our Enemy, the Enemy against whom our forefathers ever strove?" His hand fell upon the stone, his eyes closed, and only by straining did Faramir hear him whisper, "When will this great age of strife come to its end?"

And as Faramir watched, the fast-fading light cast deep shadows upon his father's face, and he pitied this old man, servant of powers which fought for mastery within him, and he asked the same question of himself: _When will it end?_ And he asked, too – _And how?_

o0o

After the King of the Mark had departed, the Lord Aragorn sat deep in thought. The moon rose and sped quickly across the heavens and, as the night grew old, Aragorn caught the smell of pipeweed on the air.

"Come, old friend," he called. "Come and sit with me. For this night lies heavily upon me, and I do not yet see the way ahead."

"It is not long now till dawn," Gandalf replied. "But the night passes more easily when two share the wait." And he sat with his friend, and they smoked, and thought, as they had done many times in the past, when the burdens of office had seemed nothing more than the dream of fools.

"And how would you tell him?" Gandalf asked as last. "What words could tell him of his father's madness?"

Long Aragorn stared into the darkness. "There are no such words," he said, at last. "None that would not say also, 'Choose, now, between us. Choose between the one who would have murdered you, and the one who now would compel your loyalty for his own ends.' There are no such words. And therefore I shall say naught."

"Wisdom indeed," Gandalf said, and smiled, and the lamplight cast shadows upon his kindly, ancient face.

Aragorn's pipe went out. As he bent to his pouch to refill it, there was a noise outside. Some words were spoken – and then Merry entered. "Hullo, Strider!" he said. "And Gandalf too! Soon we shall be quite a party!"

Behind him, a figure moved into the play of light.

"Lord Faramir," Aragorn said calmly. "You are never, I think, wholly at your best when we meet."

Faramir knelt before him. He looked exhausted, and filthy. "For my part, my liege," he said, bowing his head as Aragorn took his hands within his own, "I would beg not to be forced again through such a mire for an audience with you." He looked up at his King. "And yet in all things, I am your servant, sire."


	6. Chapter VI: Lost Souls

**Chapter **V**I**

**Lost Souls**

Throughout that long night, Éowyn stood by the walls looking out and waiting for the sign. And her mind returned often to earlier that evening, when Merry came to her chamber and told her, in quick whispers, of the madness of Denethor, and the fire, and the captivity of Húrin – and of his own watch upon the Tower, padding softly into places where no tall Man or grand Lord could take himself.

"Húrin told me the safest way out," Merry said. "An unguarded way. But they won't let me near Faramir! Only his father sees him now – and you."

Éowyn took the Halfling's hand. "Dear Merry," she said. "So it falls to us again."

Taking herself to the Lord Faramir's chamber, she asked for him to come forth and his guards, standing aside, let him pass, as if it did not occur to them that she might have some other purpose. And they stole through the city, coming at last to some dark cellar with water dripping down the walls.

"This is the way," she whispered.

"I know it."

"But we must wait for Merry..." Gently, she rested her hand upon his cheek. "A year shall I endure for every moment until your return."

He started. "You must not remain here—!"

She placed her finger upon his lips. "I slew the monster," she said. "You must never forget that. Never." And she took him in her arms and kissed him under the mantle of darkness, where not even the farsighted could spy upon them.

And a few hours later, the night still dark, Éowyn watched as the sign lit up the sky – the scream and blaze of an Eagle, red and gold, wrought with all the art of Gandalf – and she knew that her beloved was safe. Turning, she went up into the Tower – daughter of kings, and now their emissary.

o0o

From the cover of the tent, Faramir watched as four small and doughty figures hurried to meet one another, embrace one another, their company restored against all hope. Then he turned to speak to his king.

Water was brought, and wine. Faramir washed his hands and face, and drank deeply. Aragorn sat upon his left and Gandalf on his right. "We descended the circles," Faramir said. "We took a hidden way. Húrin had commanded it unwatched and those of the guards that were loyal to him – that are loyal to me – have it that way. The Lady Éowyn remains in the Tower."

"As hostage?" Aragorn asked, fearing what he might have to tell her brother.

Faramir's expression, hitherto stony, softened. "No man can hold the Lady Éowyn against her will," he said. "Not even my father." His face tautened again, and silence fell. Aragorn looked to Gandalf, but the old man sat in a haze of smoke, and watched the ground.

With effort, Faramir began to speak again. "My father," he said. "His heart has darkened. Beyond all that I have seen across the years..." He replenished his cup. "He will not accept your claim. There would have been war, strife, father against son, brother against brother..."

"In this matter, you need give no account to me, Faramir," Aragorn told him, gently. But Faramir was not consoled. Rising from his chair, he paced about the tent, coming to uneasy rest with his back to the ranger and the wizard. When at last he spoke, his voice was so low, that even Strider had to strain to hear it.

"In my dreams," he said, "there is a fire, and I am cast upon it. The burning... Ah! But in the very moment of my immolation, the fire dampens, and I find myself in a stony land. Rain comes, but no flood, and the drops of water seem to be lit green, as if made from emeralds. This light I follow, back to the source, to safety." He turned as last to Aragorn, eyes grey as the sea. "A fire," he said. "Can you solve this riddle? I cannot."

Softly, now, Gandalf spoke, and told him – of his father's despair, and his madness, and of the pyre. And all the while, Faramir kept his eyes upon the man who would be king. What at last Gandalf finished, Faramir said, "And did you think to use this knowledge? To bring me to you?"

"I did."

"But chose not."

"I did not doubt you, Faramir."

Grey watched grey: studied, measured, weighed. "The wiser choice, both just and shrewd. Did I not call you king?"

"You did," Aragorn replied.

Again, Faramir paced the room. "Indeed, when I wandered that rocky place, I heard my father calling me. But I could not follow. Your voice, however – that I must obey." Turning, he placed his hand upon his chest. "_Arandur_," he said, eyes still bright and febrile. "King's servant. No true choice existed."

They talked only a little longer, until Faramir left to take what rest he could. Soon after, Gandalf too departed, for the Lady Éowyn still kept her vigil, and waited for the sign that he must send. Bitterly, Aragorn said, "A great lord and captain, strong and resolute in his defence of the West! What payment have I given him? To steal the love of both father and son!"

"Nay, lord," the wizard said. "Old friend. You have taken naught that was not given freely. Nor can you give what will not be taken."

o0o

And at last Éowyn came to the White Tower, and to the Hall of Kings, and her firm footsteps resonated in that great empty chamber. Quickly, surely, she walked towards the old man sitting alone in his lowly chair, the rod of his office upon his lap.

"Sir," she said. "He has gone. He is with the King." Coming to a halt before him, she knelt and grasped his hand. It tremored. Pity filled her heart. "Sir," she said again, softly. "Hear me. Do you think I do not understand the shape of your thoughts? Thrice now I have wrestled with death, and each time the contest was more evil and clawed from me a portion of my soul. The Worm I fought, and then the monster, but the last and greatest battle was with myself. Sir," she begged, "earnestly I beseech you – put death behind you."

The Steward lifted his eyes and, seeing her face, smiled, with a little warmth. "Lady, do you seek to sway me, or to sway yourself?"

"Both," she said. "And what does it matter, either way?" Urgently, she said, "Come with me now. Walk with us under the sun. Walk into the green world."

"As jester? As slave? His claim is false, lady, and no crown can alter that. Yet a choice does remain. To go at my own will. To give back the gift." Setting down the symbol of his office, he reached out to set both hands upon her face. And she saw the likeness again – the love of Gondor, the resolve – and she glimpsed the younger man once he had been, the Steward's son, second to the stranger. He stooped to kiss her brow. "Fair lady of Rohan," he said. "Daughter. Yes. You will love him well."

o0o

Dawn broke upon the city, a wave of pale grey light rolling in from the east. The horns heralded the new day. The king's party passed through the makeshift gate and ascended the levels, as the people watched from behind half-open windows and half-closed doors. At the entry to the uppermost circle, the lady Éowyn met them, her face bloodless under the flicker of the lamps that lit the way ahead.

In the Court of the Fountain, an old man hung from the dead tree, his shadow black against the white stone of the tower. Dawn light touched his proud and ruined face, and glanced off the dark globe of glass that lay at his feet.

They stood for a while in silence – kings, princes, servants. Some wept, but the Steward was still as stone, suspended between motion and act. At last the King of Gondor came forth. He bowed his head before the dead man, and then bent to claim the _palantír_ as his own. He held it aloft, and it seemed to those gathered that the glass smouldered for a moment, as if filled with bright embers which were quickly quenched. Light poured in from the East, and shone upon Elessar and the green stone that he bore.

"This has been a place of darkness," he said. "But now I am come."

**Epilogue**

**This is the Way**

Barahir could never bear to watch another read his work.

Slowly he paced the chamber, tidied the desk, picked up scrolls and set them down again, worried his pen – all the while with his back to the old man, who sat in his chair and read. No sound came from him beyond a rustle now and again as, one by one, he set leaf after leaf upon each other.

"A fine account," said his grandsire at last. "Very fine."

Barahir turned. The Steward stacked the papers tidily between his gnarled old hands, hand that had wielded swords, signed warrants, written history.

"Of course," Faramir said, "it cannot leave this room."

"Sir?"

The old man placed the papers down upon the desk. "Tell me, Barahir, what purpose does your history serve? What purpose, do you think, that any history serve?"

"'Tis a true account, sir—"

"True? And to what end?"

To that, Barahir had no answer. Helplessly, he held out his hands. The old man watched; fierce, judging, kindly.

"Look around you," the Steward said. "Look at the records held here. Who comes to this room?"

"Only you and I, sir." That was why they used it, for the peace.

"Only you and I. And what is there to draw men here, Barahir?" He gestured around them at the shelves and the scrolls that lay upon them. "What can be gleaned from all of this? The pay of the masons that built the White Tower? The cost of a loaf of bread in the days before the Kin-Strife? These may be truths, Barahir, but they are not history."

Slowly, Barahir took up his papers. He held them lightly between both hands. Written now. Should it be unmade? Haltingly, but loyal, he said, "What would you have me do with it, sir? Ought I to cast it on the fire?"

"That would be a drastic measure."

"Was I wrong to set it down?"

"I think not."

"Then what is to be done with it?"

Again the old man gestured around them. "Let it be. Leave it. Leave them their kings and captains, the faithful and the faithless. Let them believe the old world burned and a new one rose from the ashes. Let it rest, Barahir. For now. Other men will want the tale – in time."

And thus it was – although Barahir wondered, as he set a seal upon the work and consigned it to the shelf – what kind of men they would be, who did not desire heroes, who would see only the faults and flaws of others and not their virtue, as if this were some greater truth. For surely the way lies in between. Men are neither good nor evil, but are at once faithless and faithful, hopeless and hopeful, pitiless and pitiful.

* * *

**Appendix A: The Sources – The Red Book of Westmarch and the Descent of the Great Smials Book**

"...the libraries at Bucklebury and Tuckborough contained much that did not appear in the Red Book...

None of [the books at Great Smials] was written by Peregrin, but he and his successors collected many manuscripts written by scribes of Gondor: mainly copies or summaries of histories or legends relating to Elendil or his heirs"

[All quotations sourced from _Note on the Shire Records_, _Prologue_, LotR].

For further information on the sources, see here.


End file.
